Tiny Vessels
by Anatomic
Summary: A series of one-shots related to the novel "Vessel" that I am currently working on.
1. Sunset

Flicking his fingers, his feet connected with a platform. Buildings made with a material resembling marble erupted from the desert, appearing like volcanoes.

The sandstone underneath his bare feet was warm to the touch; although there were no sun in the sky - it did have color, a dark magenta, a purple that faded into a warm red in the horizon. A breeze took sand with it, whirling it at the structures like waves at a cliff. He took a step forward and felt his body instantly go heavy, his muscle mass was what weighed him down.

He knew his current body wasn't suited - the gravity was too intense, he'd die from a lack of oxygen if he was someone who didn't belong in the realm. A feeling close to taking off his funeral clothes met him, the tissue on his back peeled off and knots of tangled fur burst out from the ingrown follicles in his skin, starting from his neck and continuing down his spine.

Soon his crooked horns with visible cracks and dents emerged from his skull, the tip of the horns gradually pointing to the skies, sharpening until they put razors to shame. He hunched forward, his spine shaping itself after the movements his shoulders made. The man's entire bone structure transformed in the span of a minute, his hair growing at an abnormal rate.

His bones got lighter and thinner, pencil sticks for limbs. They stopped when he reached eight feet, his upper body losing weight faster than any could eat themselves out of, and his rib cage smiled through his skin when he stretched his arms over his head. His eyes whitened, the color thickening and coming to resemble bleach, his pupils graying until they faded into the iris.

A thin tail emerged from his tail bone, the tip of it barely touching the ground. His clothes melted off him, sinking into the ground while it burned up like hair in a fire. The only burned piece that'd been left wrapped around his hips, the crisp ends reaching his ankles.

The structures stood tall, the now abandoned city had drawn inspiration from Earth's Rome, and most likely that was when the people who'd made them last visited. He strolled through the golden sand, walking aimlessly around the structures, the cloth around his hips a pirate flag, a deterrent.

His arms hung down his sides, he moved slowly, despite the length of his legs. When he reached what looked like a main street, he stopped up. Though he was a quiet individual, he didn't find silent cities all that comfortable. A sound had been carried to him within the grains of sand.

He'd returned to the platform with just a footstep.

A woman stood there. She sighed before she took hold of her ponytail, letting her hair fall to her thighs. The hair tie landed in the sand and soon, it too, melted away.

Looking around, she shook her head and morphed. Her electric hair grew, slithering along the sand like an expensive robe, her arms pulling at the locks closest to her chest so she wouldn't expose herself. Her bones cracked and rearranged, making sounds most would wince at. She grew horns in the color of her hair and an even thinner tail than his, with only a clump of fur at the tip.

In awe, he observed her. The woman's' eyes were like the sky on Earth; so incredibly blue. When she finally took notice of him, but the fact that he'd stood there for so long without her realizing it - she'd already lost.

With burning eyes, she disappeared and tackled him from behind. He ducked. She retreated, gritting her teeth. Pulling back her foot, she appeared back on the platform, looking even more dissatisfied than when she got here.

He faced her head on, neither of them speaking. She stared him down like a wild cat, horns pointed forward, nostrils flaring and tail smacking the sand rhythmically. When she'd identified him, indifference replaced her hostility.

"Here for the sunset?" The white-eyed asked while raising his head.

"No, I came here because Jorden ordered me to attend a meeting since I haven't for the last hundred years," the woman explained, putting the back of her hand on her hip, "but, I doubt you're here for the same reason."

The man leaned his head back and glanced at the reddening sky as his tail drooped to the ground, "I came for the sunset." He admitted.


	2. Maldon

It was raining on that day, the 10th of August, 991 AD.

The grass blew in the ocean wind, the sand on the edge of the lands whirling with the continuous sea-wind. A brook almost the size of a river lay close to the bay and a small bridge connected the two pieces of land.

It was this peaceful silence that the sounds of Scandinavian Viking ships disturbed. In the masts of the powerful long ships, the Raven Banner was proudly displayed, roaring its battle-cry.

The Vikings rowed against the waves that were delaying their arrival, yet they still moved at incredible speeds despite the harsh tides, coming closer and closer to the beach with every passing minute.

In the Anglo-Saxon territory, only few men stuck out their heads, armor rustling and with furrowed brows, some already sweating as they marched out into the open marshes.

The only thing separating them was the bridge, and a pair of feet tapped against the stone, making its way over the river-bridge. The Viking messenger came to a halt when they reached the Anglo-Saxon army, raising his voice and speaking boastfully about his fellow Vikings:

"They sent me to thee, those bold seamen and bade me to say that thou must send swiftly ring-money for pledges. For you were it better that you buy off this spear-rush with your tax, than that we should have so hard a battle."

The Anglo-Saxon leader let a tsk through his lips, the horse he rode on snorting, raising its front hoof and aggressively putting it down into the mud once again, letting the liquified dirt splash onto its muzzle and chest.

"Hearest thou, what this people say? For tribute they're ready to give you their spears, without a blow struck - now that ye have thus far made your incoming into our land, shall ye nor so softly carry off our riches. Back with thy message, grim war-play indeed - before we give tribute."

It was clear to all that this dispute was not going to be solved by paying tribute, of what was going to be known as the dreaded Dane-geld many years later.

The mere message-man turned his back to the enemy soldiers, scurrying back to his leader with the message of absolute denial and refusal. The tides only rose higher and the rain fell from the skies in greater and heavier numbers, further delaying the Vikings arrival.

When the Vikings finally set a-foot on the shores of the English lands, they raised their blades dipped in poison, their Dane axes and their long-swords, spitting provocative remarks and roaring their lungs empty of air.

The Anglo-Saxons sent forward their mightiest warriors to guard and protect the stone-bridge, preventing the Vikings from crossing the river. This though, did not frighten nor worry the Vikings in the slightest, it only aggravated them further.

When the first Viking arrow was shot, it hit a peasant at the front of the inferior numbered Anglo-Saxon army, breaking the tension and letting animal instinct take over.

In the crowd of English soldiers, a heavily-armored man sat on-top a black horse with a broadsword decorating his back, a dagger in belt and a bow in hand.

He fired arrows in twos and threes at the Viking beasts, his eyes following every important aspect of the battle, his hands working at speeds only a trained soldier were capable of.

His reflexes worked on routine, but under the helmet the pores on his forehead oozed sweat, running down his face and under his helmet, continuing down his veined neck.

He dug the back of his heels into the horse's sides, the animal's nostrils heaving steam, its hind-legs shifting into a gallop.

Arrows flew past him as he gradually advanced to the front-lines, the peasants on the marshy ground trying their hardest to get near him with their pikes and axes.

He tugged at the reins, taking the bow over his head and changing to his broadsword. With precision, he sliced through the peasants, dodging their sharpened spears and ducking when they let loose their flails.

This was until higher ranked warriors approached his struggle, holding long-swords and poison blades close to their chests, some wearing helmets and others even chest plates. Blood decorated his breast and shoulder plates, his helmet soon covered too.

He became lost in the endless waves of Vikings, their long curly hair flowing with the winds, axes hacking into the shoulders of his fellow soldiers, the screams of overpowered warriors as they fell to the mud in defeat, hands, legs, or whole arms chopped off.

Others lay dying in the shallow waters from poison, it would take them hours to get back home, and by then they'd already be lost to the poison.

It wasn't long before their leader also joined the battle, his war cries motivating the remaining soldiers to keep fighting.

After their leader had invited the Vikings to cross the bridge, he'd told the savage sea-robbers that this fight lay in the hands of the Gods and that the last man standing would be declared owner of the battlefield.

The Vikings had graciously accepted this, and they'd stormed the bridge, some even crossing over the river, their shields bathed in fresh-water, their leather pants muddy and wet.

It was after that invite, that this mounted soldier had begun to shoot his arrows.

Now, he were surrounded by Vikings warriors, their weapons raised and their shields ready to defend their drenched bodies, their shoes and feet covered in slimy rainwater as they made a circle around the man, not allowing him escape.

It was a spear-man who started the attack, throwing the spear with clear skill. The soldier dodged the flying spears, and in the mean time, blocked off any warriors when they attacked him at close-range with swords and flails.

Without his knowledge, a Viking had crept up behind him and just when he were about to turn around, they smashed the armor on his back with a mace, the bits falling to the ground and with no time to react, the Viking slid their 12-inch blade into his back, blood pouring out and forever staining the marsh as it splattered onto the Viking's helmet and hands.

This gave the other warriors enough time to overwhelm the Anglo-Saxon soldier. Flipping their daggers out from their belts, they smashed through the soldier's armor, tearing his leather clothes and piercing his organs with such rage one would think they were insane.

The soldier fell to his knees, his severely damaged helmet falling off of his head, revealing his face to the Vikings, and in triumph they roared at the sight of the high-ranked soldier's dead body, his dark, messy hair glistening with sweat, his body turning cold and his face covered in wet mud.

His blue eyes stood wide open in horror, and his hands twitched for one last time, before his whole body went completely limp, like a newly caught fish who'd just accepted death.

The Scandinavian pirates left his body to rot, the sight of the Viking whom had killed him getting blurrier and blurrier, and just then he realized that his friend had just taken his life.


	3. Friday

Water drops dripped into the bathroom sink, making a distinctive sound as they splashed against the hard surface.

Turning off the tap with a cold and shivering hand, he cursed his body for letting this control his limbs.

Eventually, the shaking stopped, and by then, he'd already moved forward.

He needed to go grocery shopping, urgently, actually. There was no rice, or milk, not even a rotten avocado.

With this mission at hand, he picked his trenchcoat up from the living room couch, his shoes from right beside the doormat and his biker gloves from ontop the small hallway table.

One wouldn't be going out for rice after that, and at this hour, but he did, he needed rice for the meat, those two went hand-in-hand, and if he didn't go shopping now, he'd go to bed hungry.

The city-lights were dimmed despite it being Friday night, one of the wildest days of the week with all the partying and late-night drinking, and what-not.

Clouds of c02 escaped his lips every time he exhaled, January nights weren't the warmest of nights, that was obvious to any fool.

Maybe that was what could explain the deceased night-life.

Sky-high buildings stood tall, suffocating you, making you feel insignificant and small like a fireant.

Continuing down the street, he crossed a one-way and entered a backstreet, going through a rusty metal door and tapping the dirty snow off of his boots, the mat sucking up the moisture.

Soda and snack machines lined up the right side of the store, on the other a long counter, the end of it barely touching the top of the heater by the street-window.

A shaggy man in his early 20's walked out from the personnel office, scratching the back of his head, his oily brown bangs falling in front of his eyes as he raised his head to look at the customer.

"Dakoda, my man."

The man greeted in a distinct New-York accent, raising the sleeves of his work-blouse, revealing dozens of faded greenish tattoos.

"Need rice, milk and some spices." He ordered, not even bothering to return the polite greeting.

"Long day?" The cashier guessed, oblivious, looking for the cardamone seeds he'd asked for.

"Yeah." Was all he managed to say.

When everything had been found and payed for, he took one step toward the door before being stopped by the cashier.

"Did something happen?" They asked, head tilted and arms crossed.

"I just haven't had my dinner."

He answered, leaving the store with no more words to muster.


	4. Anonymous

The soon thirty year old detective sat in his chair, his jaw in contact with his carpet as he opened the untitled mail from the anonymous sender.

He'd usually sit back after a long day's work and read through his mail so as to prepare himself for the next day, but he rarely got a mail from someone anonymous, mostly because the usual criminal would have some sort of trace on them; be it a first name, a profile picture; a home country or a box that stated their gender.

This wasn't the case with this email. The only file attached to it was a video recording of a girl in her underwear. She was propped up on a disposable chair that you'd buy at a concert for a cheap price, her eyes closed and her frizzy hair down, reaching just above her chest.

What was peculiar was the fact that she was in front of a plain, white wall. There was no indication of where she was and the bright lighting suggested that spotlights had been put up in order to disguise the time of day and the location of where she was being filmed. He couldn't tell no matter how much he strained his eyes, of whether she was facing north or south.

He leaned back in his chair as he watched the silent video go by. The image of the girl burned itself into his mind and as he was just about to see how long the video was- it ended.

A shiver ran down his spine, he could barely figure out how to operate his email afterward. He forgot how to delete emails or mark them as read, and flat out ignored the ones that came in.

Raising his palm to his forehead, his brain rebooted just in time to discover that the video he'd been sent wasn't there anymore, in fact, the whole email had been deleted from his inbox. He immediately emailed the case chief about it and turned off his computer.

For the next few minutes, his eyes just, darted back and forth. He stood up from his chair and walked around the office, his bushy brows furrowed, his hand obsessively slicking back his hair while he paced.

Who'd sent him that?


	5. Despite

The boy didn't want to admit it, but for some reason this man was the only one who could hold his personalities at bay. Albert and Kane weren't there when he touched him or when he insulted him. But no matter how bad he was treated, the boy always came back to him, and he always came back to him.

There was no doubt in his mind about it. He adored him, he loved him – but because it's him, he could never hope to hear that back, he never committed himself to anyone, ever, not now and not tomorrow.

Noon, the time one would usually go for a second cup of coffee – except, he hated coffee, but, he liked it.

He sat on his black wooden chair, how he managed to paint them black without damaging the wood remained a mystery to him to this day. He sat there, ever so quietly like he always did. His head lowered, arms resting on the dinner table, his eyes closed and his clothes halfway on.

It wasn't like he was one to never finish tasks, but when he never slept, there was bound to occur a pattern of being grumpy in the morning because of something, despite never sleeping. Yet, he admired this part of him, because it reminded him every morning that he still had fight left in him.

He watched that cycle every night; from the moment where he relaxed so much, that his horns peaked out of his head, of where they eventually grew too tall to lay in the bed with, resulting in him having to get out of bed and pulling himself to the leather couch in the living room, sitting down precisely in the middle of it, just to close his blindingly white eyes again.

Despite not being able to sleep.

He'd always guessed, that this was solely because the man missed being human. He missed the feeling of being drowsy and laying down in a cool bed, to tuck in with his blanket and slowly close his eyes, knowing he had all the time in the world to sleep.

Despite not being able to sleep.

Yes, despite not being able to sleep, he still tried, he tried his best every night to sleep, trying to appear like he did, trying so hard, so hard; every single night, every night, he tried, but never to any gain. He didn't gain anything from sleeping, he didn't, and yet, he tried every night.

That was what he admired so much about him. He tried so consciously to be human, with the most mundane of things.

The man loved coffee and spicy food, despite knowing he wouldn't gain weight even if he ate himself to death in candies and cakes, despite knowing he couldn't process his favorite food and experience the thrill of gaining or losing weight without his knowledge.

He never got anything out of cooking, he just cooks because he does.

Despite not needing to.

He watched him sit there every morning when he visited, when he got lonely in the dark night, when he couldn't find fun in anything.

The man would always sit there in the morning and call him a cat because of his slit, amber eyes; making fun of his long canines from the way they protruded from his mouth, angering him as he tried eating his pancakes, smiling sourly at his misery as he threw a fit and called him loving slurs.

Despite not.

He'd gulp down his strawberry smoothie with such passion, knowing he only made it when he visited, because he knew he liked them, despite knowing he couldn't process it, despite.

Now that he thought about it.

He couldn't sleep either.


	6. Cycle

"I don't want to."

She said as she sat her rump on the bar stool by the lacquered kitchen counter, her nails tapping against it as she moved around in her seat. She stared at him with eyes that tore through flesh and bone - just like his did.

He approached her without speaking, his dress shoes soundless against the living room carpet. Without looking away, he pulled her to him, forcing his legs in between hers as his cold, arctic eyes scraped out her insides.

"You know what my answer to that is - yet you still say it," He said while letting his head hang. His bleached face closed in on hers, his neck creaking as he lowered his chin to her level, "do you deliberately mock me to get me in your shredded, little girl shorts?" He asked, his cold touch reminding her of continuing to play in the snow even when your fingers are breaking off from frostbite.

She tried swallowing the lump in her throat, the lump gagging her into submission. She averted her eyes, turning her head to ignore his face, the face she wanted to cry at, kick to the ground, suck free of passion... and treasure.

"Stop. I don't want to today, you can't seduce me like all your whores." She spat, a flame being nursed to health in her stomach, but all she heard was a smoky chuckle in her direction.

"That I can't, but, I don't need to, Violetta." He smiled.

His smile pissed her off.

Moving her legs up to her chest, she kicked him with all the strength her bones could muster.

He was kicked into the balcony window, the panel cracking, glass fragments falling to the floor.

He disappeared. Her eyes went wide. She was struck to the ground. A fist, then the bedroom. His eyes.

"Cut it out! Dakoda! You- you motherfucker!" She yelled and screamed, her throat going hoarse - but there was no response. She was bound with a leather belt, her eyes closed tight.

"Stay, close enough so I can smell you." He breathed, and her eyes shot open, staring into the black nothing.

"Not toda-" she felt lips slam into hers, his lethality spreading through his mouth as he sucked on her tongue, his metal piercing clicking against her teeth like a grandfather clock, "...not today."

She whispered as his oh-so perfectly molded fingers went past her underwear. He rubbed her, licked her ear, bit her neck, her devil craved this every second of every day.

When he gave it to her; no matter how much she'd begged and screamed, she always ended up tossed aside, cum dripping down her thighs, the taste of iron still on her tongue, her flesh chewed off and put in the freezer, ready for next day's dinner.

His kisses bedazzled her, the lump in her throat preventing her from fighting back. His eyes. They looked so inviting, so peaceful.

To give up - was that her rescue?

"Stop!"

She pushed him, so hard she thought her arms would break off. He fell back on the king-sized bed. When she thought she could relax, he grabbed her by the neck, slamming her into the pillows. He squeezed, so tightly her head might come clean off.

"D-Dako-" She whimpered with her eyes shut, tears running down her powdered cheeks, "-da!" She gripped his hand, trying to pry it off her neck.

He moved in close to her, sitting on her with his belt opened, his black boxers showing through as he leaned over her.

"You call yourself a succubae?" He snickered by her ear - everything it took to bring her over the edge. She used both of her hands to bend his wrist backward, using the time to get up and throw him out the open door, and into the hallway. His body crashed against a wall and she ran after him.

Her nails grew long, inhuman - and so did his.

She stabbed him in the stomach, blood spewing out in buckets. In return, he picked her up and wrapped her legs around him just so he could sink his claws into her thighs.

"Was this what you wanted, asshole?" She hissed as she headbutted him, the back of his head hitting the wall. As if nothing had happened, he ran into the wall in front of him.

"Ah!" She yelled, her head going dizzy, not realizing he was moving his hands upward, reaching for her tits.

In attempt to stop him, she forced her hand out of his grip, piercing his cheek with her claws and using it to hold his head in place.

"Evil." He managed to say with blood filling up his mouth, running down his face, ruining the shirt he wore.

"I don't take kindly to being molested, you pompous fuck." She growled in anger, widening the wounds in his face that her claws had made.

"But you like it." He said with a head tilt, the wounds closing around her claws. Her eyes narrowed as she pulled her claws out, his face healing right back up. Only the blood knew what had happened.

They flung each other around the apartment for hours, it could take days before they got exhausted enough to stop.

When the sun peeked over the Onyxdale horizon, purple locks of hair greeted him with their vibrancy. The living room carpet was soft to lay on. He turned his head further, reaching out to touch the brilliant color.

"Don't." A weak voice mumbled.

"All right." He said.


	7. Fragment

In the center of the crackling room lay a bundle of people, sprawled out on the floor for the ones who entered to see. This, was the first thing they saw, after they'd been deemed infected.

His head hung, the floor met with cloudy eyes, black splotches decorating his snowy skin. There was no doubt, he was going to die here. He wondered if his family was going to save him, then he blinked as he realized he'd been thrown to the ground, the iron door closing without telling.

There was no spark left in him, he raised his head to the masses in the cellar; hands to their heads, some screaming, other vomiting blood or crying. Yes - he'd do that too. But there was nothing left in him, no will to fight, no will to scream.

Darkness enveloped his shivering hands, the garbs he wore when healthy no longer there. He mustered strength in his decaying legs, choosing the stone brick he'd pass away on. There was no attention given to him as he walked, the others were looking for their own brick.

A smooth stone shinier than the rest caught his tired eyes. It welcomed him with arms similar to his mothers, warm arms, safe arms, healthy arms. Her berry red lips, exotic black hair, glass-eyes molded in crystal.

"Doth not worry. Thee are safe, Dawe." His mother would tell him with vowels dipped in honey. There was no pain.

Then he saw his hand, there was a wound in his palm, it oozed with yellow, and red, and pain. The stone grew warmer underneath him, he'd sat there for a while now. The darkness was getting darker, could darkness get blurry, too?

Spring buds played at his face, tickling his cheeks and making him lift his hand to brush them away.

The buds weren't real. He was becoming them. White flurry, snowflakes all around as they blinded him in the darkness that faded. Everything was so bright, so pure. Until, he saw the face of someone. They'd returned with the dark, drowning his feet and slithering up his legs.

"Where are thou headed?"The figure asked, as if it assumed he knew. He'd just followed the spring buds, how could he know where they were headed?

"Do thee knoweth?" He asked back, and the black figure seemed to scoff.

"Yes, but doth thee?" It raised a pointed a finger at him, its shadow sprawled out like a ripped cloak, moving up against non-existent walls, circling him in his corner of white. The buds screamed at him, until they too, disappeared. The figure grew darker, bigger and fluids leaked from its skin, red and black coloring each other, meeting, hugging, suffocating the other until only one stood.

"Who art thou?"

"I am death, thy death."

It said, followed by its cysts popping, spouting black goo and crimson tendrils from their holes, drowning him in mix-matched hues. And he fell. So far, and for so long, that his feet forgot to kick.

He landed in a barren land. Sand dunes stretched across the horizon. Now that he thought about it, there was a horizon - he'd landed somewhere. Warm, soft sand embraced his toes, but compared to the beauty of the purple horizon, the sand was bleak. Then he laughed at himself: if the horizon is beautiful, then sand feels nice.

Picking himself up from the golden field, he begins to walk. His feet weren't tired, his eyes didn't burn, and the black sacs of blood and goo weren't there. He walked a narrow road through two hills of sand, a large building exposing itself at the edge of the dune.

The building shined, it was made of white stone, a type of stone he hadn't seen. Like the brightness the buds of spring had shown him, the building's light greeted him like an old friend. He was meant to be here?

In the sand, there was something unusual - a misty ball. With a tilted head, he approached it and it expanded without him noticing, swallowing him whole. The man who'd once stood in the endless oceans of sand, he was no more. His identity had been taken, and something had replaced his heart.

The ball of mist cackled at the man now forgotten, rising up in the stranger's body, making it stand on its empty shell as the mist swam through the veins of the vessel, stopping only at the edges of the body, wrapping all within those lines in haze.

His eyes that had rolled up into the back of his head, danced their way back, broken bones cracking back in place without the help of glue.

Ice. That was all one could say about its eyes now. It raised its hand, staring at it like a baby would at its mother. It blinked for the first time and lifted the hand higher. Purple clouds was what it first saw, and it would be what it saw last.

It wondered what it was - but then it remembered. It was a part of him, yet also, a part of the human. So it was only a fragment, a small piece, it was merely a vessel, a cause for something of the greater good.

Or not?

One part was for certain. It couldn't wait to return to Earth, the world where instead of purple, the sky was a gentle azure, a color that kissed you good morning every day. Purple could do that too, but not as good.

White sickly lips, messy black hair, and bleached eyes molded in disasters.

Not long before it could join the other vessels.

It hoped to cease God's child from the face of the Earth. It would do it quicker, faster, better than any before it.

It'll cease it?

Ceis, that'll be what the vessel is.


End file.
